Homecoming
by Jalos
Summary: Three years after the US declared victory over the infection, Francis receives a invitation from Zoey to attend Louis and Rochelle's wedding.  Old wounds are opened, old flames are rekindled.  Zoey x Francis, Louis x Rochelle, mentioned Nick x Ellis.
1. The Invitation

It had been three years since the military had officially declared victory over the infection. Three years and not a peep from her. Of course, if you asked him, Francis would tell you that was just fine in his book - he always was a bit of a loner. So he spent those three years on the road, just him, a bottle of beer, a shotgun, a motorcycle and the open asphalt. He ranged from place to place, stopping in at bars and motels and making money by gambling, starting bar fights, and occasionally landing a normal job that lasted for all of a few days before he either quit or was fired. It wasn't much of a life, but it was one he was well used to, and it was one he enjoyed. And so, to say he was surprised when he got a letter from Zoey would be an understatement.

"Huh," Francis grunted as he read the return address, noting with some surprise Zoey's name and address. She lived in Philadelphia, which was slightly ironic, given how recently they had escaped from it when it was still thoroughly infected. The letter had been hand-delivered by the manager of the motel he was staying in - how it had reached him in his wanderings, he would never know - and Francis had spent several long seconds staring at it in disbelief. He thought she had forgotten about him.

The letter was short and hand-written, and Francis read it twice before the message finally sunk in.

_Dear Francis,_

_I sincerely hope this letter finds you well. We've settled into our new community here in Philly, and Louis actually got a job! He's a shift manager at the local supermarket now._

_As you may know, Louis and Rochelle are something of an item. As you almost certainly do not know, they're getting married in a few weeks. I would love it if you'd come attend - they're going to be having a dance afterwards. And it would be nice to see you again after all this time._

_Love,_

_~Zoey_

_P.S: Wear something __nice__!_

Francis slowly set the letter down on the bedside table, and sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment, stunned. Did she say Louis and Rochelle were getting _married!_ Sure, he'd always known that they had a sweet spot for each other, but… married? Francis shook his head slowly, a smile starting to creep onto his lips. "What do you know," he said, chuckling. "Looks like the apocalypse wasn't the end of the world."

Then he frowned. Did Zoey seriously want _him_ of all people to come to their wedding and… _dance?_ He almost laughed aloud at the proposition, so he picked up the letter and read it for a third time. Yep. That's what she said. He scratched the back of his head in thought. 'Wear something nice,' she had said. Where the hell did she expect _him_ to get a suit! Still shaking his head, he set down the letter, and picked up the phone.

-O-

The high, insistent wailing of the phone cut through the silence and stillness of the darkened apartment. The first ring was given no response, but on the second ring, a tall, lithe figure lying in the room's principle piece of furniture - a bed - grumbled, groaned, and flailed about for the phone.

His hand connected with the handset, knocking it off its cradle and, subsequently, off the desk. With a muttered, sleep-slurred curse, the figure in the bed reached over and flipped on the bedside lamp, revealing a toned but lean, light-skinned man with dark hair mussed from sleep and a two-day stubble, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he reached down, grabbed the phone, and said in a mostly intelligible voice "This better be damn good. You have any idea what time it is?"

-O-

Francis chuckled as the irritated and very groggy voice on the other end greeted him, and said "I'm doin' fine, Nick, thanks for askin'." There was a very, very long pause, and then the voice on the other end said, in a voice slightly more irritated and far less sleepy, "…Oh. Fantastic. Just the man I wanted to hear from." "Hell yeah, brother," Francis said, grinning. "Look, I need your help with something."

-O-

Nick struggled upright in bed, idly rubbing his fingers through his tangled hair. "You want _what? _A suit! What the hell for!" There was a pause, then he nodded and said "Yeah, yeah, I heard about that, and I'm just overflowing with happiness for the both of them. But if you don't give me a pretty damn convincing reason in the next ten seconds as to why you woke me up at three-goddamn-o'clock, I'm going to hang up this phone and go back to sleep!" Then he narrowed his eyes. "You're telling me you don't know where to buy a good suit? Why does that not surprise me?" He fell backwards, landing with a flop on his pillow, phone still held to his ear. After a long pause, he finally said "Alright, look, 'brother'… I can't believe I'm saying this, but why don't you come on over? If it will get you off this phone so I can go back to sleep, I'll show you a few good places."

-O-

"Thanks, Nick!" Francis said. "Yer a real pal!" Nick muttered something about 'sleep' and 'greaseball', then the line went dead. Still grinning, Francis placed the handset back in its cradle, and stood up, retrieving his shotgun from the dresser drawer he'd stashed it in and resting it on a shoulder. Fishing in his vest pocket for his motorcycle keys, he walked out of his motel room, whistling to himself.

-O-

It was past seven PM the next day when Francis finally arrived in Philly. With nothing more than a stop at a shitty roadside motel for a six-hour catnap, he had ridden nonstop through the night, morning and early afternoon on the mostly deserted roads, nothing but him, his big black vintage Harley, the open asphalt and the Sabaton blasting from his speakers. Twisting the key in the ignition and sliding it out, he flicked the kickstand down with the toe of his iron-shod boot, then hopped down onto the sidewalk as the motorcycle's baritone snarl died away.

Looking up at the big brick apartment building, more than half its windows still boarded up, Francis briefly wondered if he was in the right place - it seemed unlike Zoey to stay in a dump like this. Looking down at the letter she had sent him, he checked the return address, and grunted. Yeah, this was the place alright.

Stomping up to the front door, he reached up and pounded three times on the large oak portal. There was a long pause, so long that Francis idly wondered if anyone was even in there, and then the large door ground open to reveal a short, middle-aged woman wearing what looked suspiciously like SWAT body armor, with a shotgun resting on her shoulder.

"What do you want?" the woman asked in a tired, exasperated voice. Francis smiled to himself, looking down at the odd landlady. Sometimes he forgot that the infection had only been 'defeated' three years ago - and stray zombies turned up now and then even years later.

"I'm here to see someone. Young woman, name's Zoey?" Francis said, leaning against the doorframe. The woman frowned in thought for a moment, then nodded to herself. "Come on in," she said, stepping backwards reluctantly. "Elevator hasn't worked since the troubles, so take the stairs. She's in apartment 304."

"Thanks," Francis said, dipping his head in something approximating a bow before stepping across the threshold.

_At some point, this place probably used to be fancy,_ he reflected idly, looking around at the column-lined foyer. Now, however, the wallpaper was cracked and peeling, the plush carpet was stained and fraying, and half the chandeliers were broken and twisted. Walking past the suspiciously open elevator door, blocked off by a wooden barrier that proclaimed 'CAUTION - ELEVATOR OUT', Francis pushed open the simple wooden door that lead to the stairwell.

Bounding up the steps two at a time, the big biker reached the third floor in no time, walking out into a long hallway lined on both sides with doors. He counted off room numbers as he walked: "300... 302... 304. There it is."

For a long time, he stood outside the door, unsure of what to do. How was somebody supposed to make an entrance after being gone for three years? What would he say to her? His stomach fluttered, and Francis glared at it. Damn it, he was supposed to be the big, badass biker boy. He could take on a pack of zombies with nothing but a baseball bat, but he was too nervous to talk to a girl that he may or may not have a little crush on?

Hell no.

Taking a deep breath, Francis walked up and rapped politely on the door. He heard movement from inside the apartment, and a few moments later the door opened. Zoey was revealed, standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, her hair wet and dangling loose about her neck and shoulders. Francis's cheeks flushed crimson at the sight.

"Look, I've told you already, the rent is-…" The words died in Zoey's throat as her eyes traveled up the broad, leather-clad chest and came to rest on the rough-hewn, all-too-familiar features. Her eyes widened a little bit, and she made no effort to close her mouth, which was hanging open in mid-word.

Francis cleared his throat awkwardly, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her face. God damn it, why did she have to show up at the door with a bathrobe on and _nothing under it?_ Wasn't this hard enough on him already?

It was Francis who finally broke the silence. "Uh… hi there," he said, reaching up and scratching at the back of his fuzzy head, a nervous tic that Zoey had become intimately familiar with during their time surviving the apocalypse together.

Now it was Zoey's turn to clear her throat, her face reddening to match Francis's. "Uh, yeah, sorry about the, um… lack of clothes… I just took a shower, and haven't had time to change, and I thought that it was just the landlady coming back to ask about her rent because I've been having issues with my job and… oh shit, I'm rambling." Turning away so that Francis couldn't see her face turning even redder than it had been before, she managed "Uh… can you wait five minutes for me to get dressed?"

Shaking himself, Francis said "Yes. Yeah, I can do that, sure." Zoey nodded hurriedly, and quickly closed the door.

Letting out his breath, Francis collapsed backwards against the wall, reaching a hand up and running it over his face. _Okay, so that didn't go as well as it could have… but it didn't go as badly as it could have either._ Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned his head back against the wall. Why did this have to be so damn hard?

A scant few minutes later - although it seemed more like hours to Francis - the door opened to reveal Zoey at last properly attired in jeans and a white three-button polo, her hair pulled up in a ponytail but still damp, a few loose strands plastered to her forehead and cheeks. She wordlessly motioned Francis to come in, and the big man slipped past her into the apartment.

Much like the rest of the building, Zoey's apartment looked like it was fancy at some point. The girl had done some remodeling, trying to fix the place up, but the wear and tear caused by the infection still showed. There were still wear marks on the edges of the windows from where boards had been nailed over them, the wallpaper had been taped down in a few places where it was starting to peel, and there were a few stray bullet-holes in the partition wall between the main room and the bedroom.

"So, uh, welcome," Zoey said, shutting the door and walking into the center of the room. "To be honest, I wasn't sure if you'd come. I didn't know if my letter would even reach you."

"Well, it did," Francis said, leaning against a wall and doing his best to appear casual. "And I came."

"I… can see that," Zoey said, then fell silent and turned away, staring out the window. Francis blinked in surprise, pushing himself off of the wall and taking a few tentative steps towards the young woman.

"Uh… Zoey? You okay, girl?" he ventured after several long seconds of silence, and Zoey nodded quickly.

"Yeah," she said, and took a deep breath before continuing "Yeah. I'm fine."

Francis wasn't convinced, but simply shrugged and started inspecting her apartment. Struggling to think of something to say about it other than 'What a shithole', Francis finally came up with "Well… you've certainly done a lot to make this place look nicer."

"Huh?" Zoey asked, broken from her reverie. Turning to look, she finally got the meaning of what Francis had said, and smiled a little. "Oh! Yeah. It looked way worse when I first moved in."

Francis's curiosity got the better of him, and he picked up a little statuette sitting on a nearby bookshelf. It was a tiny horse, made from ceramic and apparently hand-painted. "What's this?" he asked, and Zoey walked over, taking the little horse from him and returning it to its proper place. "Oh, it's nothing… just something I scavenged from-…"

She trailed off as she turned back and found her face no more than twelve inches from Francis's powerful, sculpted chest. His vest and tank-top did nothing to hide his well-defined musculature, and her cheeks flushed crimson.

This close to her, Francis could smell her oh-so-familiar scent, and for a minute he lost himself in the emerald depths of her eyes. "Zoey, I…" _I missed you, _he thought, although his mouth seemed unable to function._ I don't think I realized how much until I came back here._

Francis blinked, and suddenly his mind snapped back into focus. His eyes widening, he took an unsteady step backwards, away from temptation, away from the girl who he thought he had left behind. "I…" he stammered, heart racing. "I have to go. Nick is waiting to meet me." And with that, he turned on his heel and fled the apartment.

-O-


	2. The Con Artist

The biggest casino in town was known as the Casa de la Muerte. It started life as a bar and pool hall back before the infection, and then when Philly was reclaimed, a certain wealthy gambler and con artist had taken it over and spent a lot of time and money renovating it. Now it was a glittering monument to the human spirit, a three-floor escape from the half-destroyed world around it. It's name - Spanish for House of the Dead - was a little tribute to all those that had died in 'The Troubles', as the infection had come to be known.

Francis chuckled to himself as he mounted the front steps - so, Nick did have a softer side.

Pushing open the swinging glass front door, Francis stepped into the lavishly-furnished foyer. The carpet was plush, crimson and spotless, the walls were papered with garish patterns that showed no sign of the ravages most other buildings in the area suffered from, and the vaulted ceiling was supported by marble support columns. Not the fake knockoff shit either, real marble.

"Holy shit," Francis muttered, eyes widening in appreciation. He'd known Nick was wealthy, but he'd never imagined that the con man was _this_ wealthy. Living through the infection must have really paid off for him.

It was a Friday evening, so the place was packed wall-to-wall with society's elite, smartly-dressed men and women of every race bustling, jostling and generally making asses of themselves. Francis shoved his way through the crowd with ease - partly due to his size and partly due to the fact that all the prissy rich people shied away from him when he got close - and strolled casually up to the reception desk. The woman behind it was dressed in a form-fitting, silky garment that must have cost an arm and a leg, with her raven hair styled to perfection. She glanced with distaste at Francis as he approached, and opened her mouth to speak.

Francis cut her off before she could. "Look, doll," he said, leaning on the sleek mahogany countertop, "I'm here to see your boss. He's expecting me."

The woman cast a despairing glance at the desk where Francis's elbow was resting - probably making a mental note to wash it later - then looked back at Francis with irritation written on every feature. "Nicholas isn't available," she drawled, and Francis scoffed. "Like hell he isn't. I talked to him this morning, so you get on your intercom and you tell him Francis is here to see him."

The woman shot him a glare that could boil the paint off a car, but reached down and pressed a button on her phone. "Nicholas, there's a man named Francis here who says you're expecting him."

Francis heard Nick heave a sigh on the other side of the phone, then the con man said "Yeah, Roxanne, he's right. Send him up."

Roxanne looked dubious, but motioned Francis to an elevator behind her. Sauntering over, the big biker hit the 'up' button and was surprised to see the doors hiss open almost immediately. Stepping into the mirror-walled compartment, Francis selected the top floor, then sighed inwardly as the doors slid shut. He hated elevators.

When the doors opened again, they revealed something resembling the penthouse suite from an expensive hotel. All done in shiny chrome colors, with an enormous picture window taking up one entire wall and a set of plush couches that each looked about as pricey as a small car, it reminded Francis of the time he visited Vegas. Pausing, Francis realized that was probably the intent.

Nick himself was sitting on one of the couches, his feet propped up on a glass-top coffee table, a glass of rich red wine held lazily between his index finger and thumb. His dark hair was slicked back and neatly combed, and he'd switched out his white suit for an extremely well-tailored and expensive-looking one in shades of grey that set off his emerald eyes wonderfully. The top button of his shirt was undone, his white tie draped carelessly across his shoulders.

"Francis," the gambler drawled as Francis walked into the center of the room, his sharp green eyes flicking up to watch the biker's progress. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"Holy hell, Nick," Francis said, looking around the huge chamber. "You've certainly done well for yourself."

"Kind of you to notice," Nick purred, sitting up straight, dropping his feet to the plush carpet and draining his wineglass. "So, you need a suit, eh? You certainly came to the right person."

"So I see. You mind if I sit down?" Francis asked, moving towards the unoccupied couch.

"Actually, yes," Nick hastened to reply, holding up a hand in a preventative gesture. "I just had that couch cleaned, and I don't want to have to do it again."

Francis sat down anyway, earning a steely glare from the con man across from him. Leaning back and draping one powerful arm across the back of the couch, Francis said "So, brother, you got a tailor you can hook me up with or something?"

"Yeah, I do," Nick said, placing his wineglass carefully on the coffee table. "Oh, and 'brother'? You're gonna need to take a shower before we go see him."

"What the hell for?" Francis asked incredulously, narrowing his eyes at the gambler.

"Because," Nick replied, his glare unwavering. "I'm bringing along someone else who needs a suit, and I need you to be clean before I permit you in his presence."

"Someone else…?" Francis began, then broke off in mid-sentence, his eyes lighting. "Ohhhh, you're bringing country boy along? I _thought_ there was something going on there!"

"First of all," Nick ground out, "His _name_ is _Ellis_. Second of all, that's none of your damn business."

Chuckling, Francis raised his hands in a placating gesture, and Nick leaned back into in his couch, blowing out his breath. After a long pause, Francis said "So… where the hell do you expect me to take a shower?"

-O-

"Goddamn, this is some fancy shit," Francis mused, standing in Nick's executive bathroom. After giving him specific instructions not to touch anything other than what was necessary and promising to try and find clothes in Francis's - rather large - size, Nick had left the biker alone in his rather spacious restroom.

Stripping off his vest and tank-top, Francis tossed the latter carelessly on the floor and hung the former with exquisite care up on one of the bathroom's many clothes hooks. Unclasping his belt and letting his jeans drop to the floor, the big biker stripped out of his boxers and walked over to the sink, taking a moment to admire his reflection. "Damn, lookin' good," he purred, giving his reflection a seductive wink before moving to the shower.

"Holy hell, you could fit ten people in here," Francis muttered, stepping into the spacious tiled chamber. There were no less than three shower heads, and for a moment Francis was unsure of which one to use. Shrugging to himself, he moved to a random one and twisted the knob. Warm water gushed from one of the shower heads, and Francis set about getting himself clean.

-O-

After a thorough soaping, scrubbing and rinsing, Francis finally deemed himself clean enough to pass inspection and killed the flow of water. Stepping out of the shower and shivering a little in the suddenly much colder-seeming air, he tugged a towel off a nearby rack and began drying himself.

He was only halfway done when there was a knock at the door. "Hey Greaseball, I found some clothes for you. And don't use the green towels, they're for me."

Curious now, Francis looked down at the towel he was currently drying himself with. Brilliant forest green. Grinning, Francis continued drying himself with it, then tossed it carelessly onto the sink and walked over to the door. "Where'd you put the new digs, Suit?" he called through the door, and Nick yelled back "Right outside the door, musclebrain!"

Pulling the door open a crack, Francis looked down… and nearly took a step backward in shock. "What the hell?" he muttered, reaching down and picking up the clothes. What in God's name had possessed Nick to get him clothes like _these?_ Sighing and resigning himself to it, Francis closed the door and started getting dressed.

-O-

"Goddamn it, I look like a pimp," Francis snarled, glaring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tilting his head to the side, he added "…Or a golfer."

"Oh, quit whining and man up, will you?" Nick shouted from the other room, and Francis flipped the bird in his general direction. Turning, he gave a mournful look at the mirror. Of all the clothes available, Nick just _had_ to pick khakis and a pink pinstriped polo shirt. "Fan-freaking-tastic," Francis muttered, storming out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.

"Oh, come on, it's not _that_ bad," Nick said as Francis stalked into the main room of the suite. "Just think - I could have gotten you a skirt instead."

"I swear to God, Suit, if Zoey sees me like this I'm gonna shove my foot so far up your ass-…"

Francis wasn't allowed to finish his threat, however, as Nick leaned forward, one eyebrow climbing and the corners of his mouth tugging up, and purred "Zoey, eh? I _thought_ there was something going on between you two from the minute I saw you on that bridge in Rayford."

"Rayford!" Francis blurted, "Bullshit! We saw each other for all of about two minutes total!"

"Maybe I'm just that good," Nick crooned, winking deviously and leaning back into the couch. Francis fumed in silence for a few seconds, then jabbed a finger at the con man and said "Look, Suit, you say _one word_ to Zoey about this conversation, or about these goddamn clothes, and I will beat you so hard-…"

"…My grandmother will hurt?" Nick finished for him, and Francis threw up his hands in disgust and resignation, heading over to the kitchenette and pulling open the fridge.

"You got any beer in here?" the biker asked, peering into the gambler's fridge. Nick sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "No. No, I do not have any beer. Just wine."

"Wine!" Francis asked incredulously, making a face. "Ugh. I hate wine."

Nick chose not to reply, merely glancing at his watch. His eyes widened fractionally, and he pushed himself to his feet. "Look at that - it's 8:00 already. Time to go meet the tailor."

-O-

"Goddamn it, I feel naked without my vest," Francis muttered, tugging on his garish polo in a vein attempt to get it to fit better. Nick had managed to find a men's Big & Tall shirt, but it was still stretched tight across the big biker's powerful chest and shoulders.

"Oh, just shut up, will you?" Nick shot back, glancing down at his watch. 8:15 on the dot, where was-…

"Ho-lee shit! Francis!" The big biker turned at the sound of his name, and saw none other than Ellis himself walking towards them. The Southern boy was wearing a pair of jeans with a hole worn in the right knee and a Midnight Riders T-shirt, with a black ballcap sitting askew atop his chestnut curls.

"Ellis! How's it goin', brother?" Francis boomed, walking up to greet the mechanic. The two men exchanged handshakes and hearty back-slaps, and then Ellis noticed Francis's shirt. He couldn't keep himself from sniggering a little, and Francis folded his powerful arms over his chest, staring down at the younger man. Raising his hands in a placating gesture, Ellis turned to Nick. Something passed between the two, something unspoken, transmitted through eye contact alone, and Nick actually smiled a little.

Francis cleared his throat, and Nick twitched a little in surprise. Turning, the con artist said "Well, let's get this over with," and led his companions into the men's store they were standing in front of.

-O-

"Big son of a bitch, your friend," the tailor, a slim man of medium height by the name of Ryan, muttered as he took Francis's measurements. Straightening and marking down the information on a small notepad, Ryan stepped backwards, looking Francis up and down. "What color suit are we thinking of for our large friend here?" Ryan asked, and all three survivors responded at once.

"Pink," Ellis said, grinning mischievously.

"Red," Francis said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Black," Nick said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Ryan held up his hands, chuckling a little bit. "Whoah, let's let the man who's gonna be wearing the suit speak for himself, shall we?"

"Red," Francis repeated, shooting both of his companions a glare.

Ryan stood in thought a moment, rubbing his chin in thought. "I don't know… from what I've seen, red would certainly match your personality, but… it's a little garish for a wedding, don't you think?"

"Psshh," Francis waved a hand dismissively, then thought for a moment and added "Oh, and make it a three-piece. It needs to have a vest."

"Of course it needs to have a vest," Nick muttered, shaking his head in resignation.

"Very well," the tailor said, shrugging good-naturedly. "A red three-piece suit it is. May I assume you're paying for this, Nicholas?"

Nick heaved a sigh, but nodded. "Yeah, I am, sadly."

"Okay then. I'll just need to go in the back for a moment and fill out a little paperwork, then I can take the payment and I should have the suit ready to be picked up in three days."


	3. The Confession

**Hello ladies and gentlemen, Jalos here. So, you're all probably wondering when the next chapter of Sanctuary is coming out… and Outcasts, and L4D Brawls, for that matter. The answer is, as honestly as I can put it without sounding like a total douche bag, when I have the time. College has taken an enormous bite out of my free time, and I'm just more inspired to write this story than my others at the moment. So until I get free time or this story runs out of juice, updates on my other stories are going to be very few and far between. I'm really sorry if any of you are disappointed by this, but hopefully the amusingly awkward survivor shenanigans provided herein will entertain you for the time being.**

**-O-**

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it, Greaseball?" Nick jibed as the trio walked out onto the street.

"Bite me, Suit," Francis shot back, striding along with his shoulders stiff and his hands in his pockets. He did _not_ like being out in public in this ridiculous goddamn shirt.

"You know," Nick drawled, sparing a glance over at the sulky biker, "If you want a skirt or some heels to go with that beautiful shirt, I know a guy that could hook you up."

The only thing stopping Francis from slugging the con artist across the jaw was the fact that Ellis was watching. So instead he satisfied himself with giving the thinner man a cold glare, which Nick blithely ignored.

"I dunno what th' problem is," Ellis piped up, earning a puzzled glance from Nick and a slightly less cold glare from Francis. "Pink's a real manly color. Y'know, mah buddy Keith had this pink shirt, an' he called it his ass-kickin' shirt, 'cause y'see, he'd put it on whenever-…"

"Kid," Francis growled, turning away from the rambling southerner, "Your 'buddy' gets weirder in every damn story you tell."

Ellis looked crestfallen at being interrupted yet again, and muttered "Well, it's true."

Francis scoffed, apparently in no mood to listen, but Nick shot the mechanic a smile and a conspiratorial wink.

Ellis perked up a little, but before he could say anything else the group was interrupted by a shout of "Hey! Is that Francis!"

The large biker turned his head in the direction of the voice, one eyebrow quirking upwards. Jogging towards them along the sidewalk was none other than Louis, a huge grin splitting his smooth features. He was dressed in slacks and a button-up, garb surprisingly similar to the clothes he wore during 'the troubles' - the term that people had come up with to make the infection sound less horrible than it really had been.

"Lou!" Francis boomed, turning completely around and opening his arms wide. The office manager collided with him, and the two men exchanged hearty bear hugs and backslaps.

"Damn, man, what are you doin' all the way out here in Philly?" Louis asked, taking a step back from his ex-compatriot. "Last I heard, you were haulin' ass across the States on that Harley of yours!"

"Yeah, well, a little bird told me that somebody was getting married," Francis said, winking conspiratorially at the much thinner man. "Figured I'd drop by for the party."

A sly gleam flashed in Louis's eyes, and he said "I'm not a betting man, but I'd wager you came back for more than just a wedding party. Maybe a certain someone brought you back here?"

Francis scoffed, and gave the manager an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. "One'a these days, Lou, your mouth is gonna get you into more trouble than you can talk your way out of."

Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Louis said "Whatever, man. All I'm sayin' is that back when we were all hip-deep in zombie guts, I happened to see a certain biker making doe eyes at a certain college girl. And now you appear out of the blue after three years… a guy's gonna get a little suspicious, y'know?"

"Doe eyes?" Francis growled dangerously, his eyebrows drawing down in a stern glare. "For your information, Lou, I _don't_ make 'doe eyes' at anyone."

Louis said nothing, but his grin didn't flicker, and after a few seconds of silence Francis shook his head and turned away. It was only then that Louis noticed his shirt, and the skinny manager's eyes widened. "Ha-ha-hooooly shit! Never thought I'd see the day that you wear something like _that_ around town, big guy!"

Francis stiffened, but reserved his death glare for the con man who had made him wear the ridiculous garment. Nick shrugged blithely, the biker's furious glower sloughing off him like water off a greased hull.

-O-

As the group entered Nick's 'apartment' - really more of a penthouse suite - above the Casa de la Muerte, Francis stripped out of his pink polo shirt, tossing the garment aside in much the same way that one would dispose of a pair of soiled undergarments. Nick raised his eyebrows at the biker's impropriety, but if Francis noticed, he didn't care, strolling shirtless to the mini-kitchen in search of something to drink.

Shaking his head in disbelief as he walked into the middle of the room, Louis said "Every time I come here, I always think I'm in some crazy-ass Vegas casino. You certainly know how to spruce a place up, Nick."

"What can I say?" the con artist drawled, lounging catlike in an armchair. "I do my best."

Plopping down on the arm of Nick's chair, Ellis doffed his hat, rubbing a hand through his chestnut curls. "Way fancier'n anythin' me'n Keith ever saw, and we saw some pretty crazy shit. Like this one time, when Keith snuck into th' mayor's house on a dare, an'-…"

"Holy shit!" Francis boomed from the kitchen, drawing the gaze of everyone in the room. Standing up triumphantly, Francis brandished a bottle of Jack Daniels that he had scrounged from the depths of Nick's cupboards.

"Uh-uh, no," Nick said, sitting up straight in his chair and pointing an accusatory finger at the bare-chested biker. "That was a gift. I'm saving it."

"For what?" Francis asked incredulously, leaning against the counter and staring longingly at the whiskey bottle in his hand.

"C'mon man, let 'im have it," Ellis said, giving Nick a nudge. "Ain't like we know anybody else that drinks th' stuff."

Nick heaved a sigh, but waved a dismissive hand in Francis's general direction. "Fine, whatever. Just don't spill any on my rug."

Grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, Francis deftly removed the bottle's cap with his teeth and spit it into the trash, before tipping his head back and taking a long swig from the bottle.

Nick's cell phone buzzed, and he hoisted himself up from the chair, excusing himself from the group and walking towards the window as he raised the phone to his ear. "Nicholas. …yeah? Uh-huh. Two-thirty. Yeah, there's a party going on over here. What? …okay, whatever. Seeya."

"Who was that?" Ellis asked as the con man sauntered back to his chair.

"Oh, nobody special," Nick replied, but shot a conspiratorial wink at the mechanic before sitting back down in the plush chair.

"You got music, Suit?" Francis asked, swaggering back into the center of the room, the Jack Daniels bottle dangling from the fingers of one hand, his other fist placed squarely on his hip.

Nick scoffed. "Of course." Francis raised his eyebrows at the gambler, and Nick waved a hand at the wall behind him. Francis followed the gesture with his eyes and, sure enough, there was a stereo system with speakers the size of mini-fridges.

Francis grinned, strolling over to the impressive music system. "All right! Now we got ourselves a party on our hands!" As he looked down at the collection of music available, Francis's expression changed from a triumphant grin to a disgusted grimace. "Jazz? Classical? What is this garbage?"

"That 'garbage' is the classiest goddamn music ever made," Nick sneered without bothering to look over his shoulder. "I had to work my ass off to get what you see there. Good music is scarce nowadays."

Giving the stereo up as a bad job, Francis prowled over to the loveseat and practically threw himself onto it, the poor abused piece of furniture creaking under his weight.

Groping for a topic of conversation, Louis asked "So, Francis… if you don't like classical or jazz, what _do_ you listen to?"

"Real men's music," Francis growled, pausing to take a long pull from his whiskey bottle. "Sabaton."

Louis and Nick exchanged puzzled looks, and the manager said "I've… never heard of them."

Francis chuckled. "Typical. They're a power metal band - probably too heavy for you, Skinny."

Nick grimaced as if pained. "Ugh. That ear-splitting, head-banging stuff hardly qualifies as music. It's just _noise_ to my ears."

"Then your ears need checked," Francis boomed, sitting up straighter and jabbing a finger at the con-man. "Primo Victoria is twice as much music as any-…"

However, the biker was not allowed to continue his impassioned speech, as the elevator dinged, and the door slid open. Every head in the room except Nick's turned to look, and Francis's heart nearly skipped a beat as Zoey stepped into the room.

"Hey guys, what's going on?" she said, taking a few steps into the room and coming to a dead stop as her eyes fell on the shirtless biker reclining on the loveseat. Her face flushed six shades of crimson, but she seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the muscles rippling across the big man's broad torso. Francis blinked a few times, then followed her gaze downward and half-jumped, almost as if he'd forgotten that he wasn't wearing a shirt. A faint blush started spreading across his cheeks as well, and Nick sniggered quietly from his armchair.

After a few seconds of painfully awkward silence, Louis spoke, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "So, Zoey, what are you doing all the way out here?"

Blinking and shaking her head vehemently, Zoey looked over at the manager, cleared her throat, and said "Well, uh, not a whole lot. I just called Nick to double-check and he said he was having some sort of party, so I figured I'd come and join in. I just didn't know…" her eyes wandered back to Francis's chest before she violently tore them away.

"Uh…" Francis ventured, reaching up and rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "Maybe I should… go put a shirt on?"

-O-

Slamming the bathroom door behind him, Francis stormed over to the mirror and splashed water on his face. _Cold_ water. Putting his palms to his temples, he shook his head to clear it of unwanted thoughts. God damn it, he was the big, badass biker who took whatever women he wanted, had his way with them and left the next morning. He was the man who started bar fights for fun, who could drink sailors under the table, and who needed no one but himself and his Harley.

Why was it, then, that he couldn't keep his mind off of Zoey? The minute she had walked into the room, his heart had started fluttering like a goddamn lovestruck teenager's.

Pulling back a fist, he swung at the mirror but thought better of it halfway there - Nick would probably shoot him if he wrecked the con man's bathroom - and adjusted his aim so that his fist connected with the wall instead, the tiles only cracking a little. Cursing and cradling his bruised knuckles, Francis glowered balefully at his reflection for a moment before walking over and retrieving his white tank-top from the floor and his vest from the wall-hook he'd hung it on. Slipping into the garments, the biker took a deep breath, mustered his courage, and opened the bathroom door.

Francis blinked in surprised as the door swung open; the large room was almost empty. Everyone had disappeared. Turning to look first one way, then the other, Francis corrected his previous statement, his heart speeding up a little. _Almost_ everyone had disappeared. Zoey stood facing the enormous window, hands clasped behind her back, silhouetted against the city lights outside.

Glancing around for any backup and finding none, Francis mentally cursed Nick for leaving him in this position - because this whole thing was probably Nick's idea - and tentatively started across the carpet toward the young woman.

"Zoey…" Francis began, unsure of what to say. Zoey turned her head to look at him, and Francis was taken aback to see tears shimmering in her eyes. "Darlin', what's-…" he started, but Zoey interrupted him.

"First of all… I know you probably think this was some scheme of Nick's, but it wasn't." She took a deep breath before finishing "It was mine. Back at my apartment, you asked if I was okay. Well… I lied. I'm not. I… I have nightmares, Francis. Three years and I still have nightmares. Other people dream of falling, of being naked in public, of getting chased by wolves… I dream of mindless beasts feasting on my guts. I dream of Tanks picking me up and tearing me in half. But most of all…" she turned completely around to face him, a solitary tear set free and trailing down her cheek, "…I dream of you."

Francis took a step back, hand going to his chest. "Me!" he asked incredulously, heart skipping a beat. There had been many lonely nights on the empty road when Francis's thoughts had been occupied by a certain young woman in a red track jacket, but copious amounts of beer and loose women had scared those thoughts from his head, and he'd never for a moment thought that they had been reciprocated.

"That day, when the Army's rescue team picked us up off of the island in the Keys… when that federal agent or whoever he was pulled you away, saying something about tests that needed to be done… I thought I was never going to see you again." Francis remembered that day very well - he'd been dragged away kicking and struggling, and given several soldiers bruises or bloody noses to remember him by.

"And then you just… fell off the radar. For the first year, I thought you were dead. I don't think I'd have gotten through it if not for Louis. He was like a brother to me through the whole ordeal in the 'carrier holding camp'. Then, when they finally released us and I caught wind that you were still alive… at first, I couldn't believe it."

Before Francis really knew what he was doing, he had crossed the distance between the two of them and enveloped Zoey in his powerful arms. As if that was all she needed, the young woman collapsed against his chest, letting out the tears she had been holding back. Francis stroked her hair in what he hoped was a comforting fashion - to tell the truth, the big biker really never learned how to comfort anyone, as no one ever really bothered to comfort him since his mother died - and was about to say something when a cell phone rang somewhere behind him. His head snapped around just as Nick hissed "Goddamn it, Louis! I told you to turn that thing to silent!"


End file.
